I won’t wait forever.
I can’t wait that long.
“The fuck are you thinking about?” Sin asks. He has his phone to his ear. “Are you imagining murder? That’s what it looks like.”
I need to send a message. One to my man in the city.
Emerson: Confirm her location by the end of the evening.
Daphne has four brothers. She still hasn’t told me which one she’s staying with. I have my suspicions. I need to know for sure.
Fine—two messages.
Emerson: And a way in.
“No.” This time, I’m going to tell him the truth. “Something much nicer than that.”
Chapter Eighteen
Emerson
Every year, I am invited to a certain charity gala in the city. It’s part dinner, part art auction. The proceeds go to funding fine arts classes for disadvantaged children in Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs. Every year, I send a significant donation along with my regrets.
Not this year.
My little painter is the keynote speaker. She’s one of the guests of honor. Her attendance has been confirmed by three separate news outlets in the past week.
Convenient, because there is no way into her brother’s house. He lives outside the city in a fortress. It’s crawling with security. I don’t know whether he’s always this cautious. Perhaps he’s heard about me. Perhaps there are other rivalries at work. That’s where Daphne is being kept.
Logan lets me out onto the sidewalk into a barrage of camera flashes. The afterimages of snowflakes imprint on my vision. Cold tests the edges of my jacket. I don’t stay long enough to let it in. Up the sidewalk between rows of manicured evergreen hedges. Up the stairs to the venue. In through the front doors.
It was a private residence at one time, but now it’s a sought-after event space in the city. Crown moldings as far as the eye can see, and white walls to provide a neutral backdrop to jewel-toned dresses and black tuxedos. They’ve torn out most of the interior walls on the main level. A girl in black takes my coat and hands me a ticket.
It’s time to find her.
I ignore the nagging urge to focus on the details of the room. It makes it more tolerable to be in spaces like this. In crowds like this. I replace it with the hunt for my little painter. It’s been too long since I touched her.
“Emerson.” An older man steps into my path, holding out his hand. Alfie Chambers is red-cheeked and jovial as hell. He has a firm grip. “I didn’t think I’d see you here. What brought you out? Margery. Say hello to Emerson.” His wife, who has never uttered an audible word in my presence, steps graciously to his side. Alfie doesn’t wait for her to say anything. “The pieces up for auction. Which one’s yours?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Daphne’s. I haven’t seen it yet, but I know the others will pale in comparison.
“Leave something for the rest of us, would you?” He spots someone else over my shoulder and blessedly leaves the conversation.
I don’t see her. I know what I’m looking for. Her soft, shining hair, so dark it’s almost black. Her eyes. The shape of her waist. I’m looking for them in a hundred sweeps of expensive fabric.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
Hunting for her takes on the guise of making the rounds. My presence is causing a bit of a stir. Whichever piece I decide to buy in the auction will shoot up in value as soon as I’ve made the purchase. The artist will be remarked upon.
Daphne will be remarked upon.
I don’t like that. I don’t want anyone else looking at her, or talking about her.
The long gallery where the auction pieces are being displayed is busy. Couples walk arm in arm in front of the pieces. Each one has its own attendant taking bids for the silent auction.
No Daphne, but her work is here. It’s among five other pieces. I pass by the one by Peter Clay with only a cursory glance. A second piece makes no impression. And then there is Daphne’s.
It stops my heart.
It’s not like the other pieces she’s done. Other pieces I’ve bought. I own almost all of her available work. Everything that’s been listed online, either by her former college or by Motif.
The ocean fills the entire canvas. Dark seas, no sky. She usually paints the surface, with at least a hint of the horizon. Not this time. This is the deep, and it’s not peaceful. Red slashes cut through deepest blue. A victim has been dragged through the current in the mouth of a predator. There are too many slashes for survival to be possible, yet she hasn’t shown the moment of attack. The horror is hidden out of frame, but the aftermath hangs in the sea.
I step closer to read the small plaque with the title of the piece.
Blood in the Water.
Jesus Christ.
I knew she was hiding something. All those dark waves—how could she not be? It’s in my head. It’s all that ends up on the canvas. She was talking about the ocean. Her secrets. I never imagined they would look like this. My heart races. Her wide, dark eyes are too innocent for a scene like this.
Or perhaps they’re not.
Need cuts into me like the crimson slashes on the canvas. In this case, her art obscures. Whatever this is, I want to hear it from her. Drag it out of her body in tears and shudders. At first it was some commentary about how the water hides things, and how it’s never the same twice. No. Her painting is what hides her. Daphne’s art reveals only the surface, but it pretends it’s telling you everything. I discover both hands are over my mouth and put them back into my pockets.
“This piece is mine,” I tell the attendant for Daphne’s piece. He leans in, his expression neutral. “I’m buying it under my corporation.” The name I give him is an anonymous shell. I don’t care if this painting skyrockets in value—Daphne is priceless. What I care about is buying myself some time. This piece is too personal to announce I’ve bought it without some consideration. “Anyone meets my bid, raise it by five thousand dollars. It’s mine at the end of the night. Do you understand?”
“I do, Mr. Leblanc.” He understands enough to stand perfectly still while I tuck a thousand dollars into the front pocket of his suit jacket.
“Emerson,” someone says. They’re circling now. Waiting to see which pieces I pay attention to.
“No.”
I don’t stop to see whether they’re taken aback or not. I want her in my sight. All the cryptic text messages. The worried tone seeping through the words on the screen. This painting.
Daphne Morelli is not all right.
All my attention goes to finding her. She is the guest of honor at this event. She’ll be where the important people are. The richest bastards among us. My head aches from staying aware of all the people in the space while I look for her. It’s the worst of all worlds. The renovations have made the carved-out rooms too large, but they’re still too crowded.
I find her in a ritzy gathering in front of a low stage that won’t be used until it’s time to announce the winners of the silent auction.
I find her with a man.
A boy, my mind supplies. A fucking boy. Someone who has recently graduated, if I were to guess.
Someone who has his hands on my little painter.
They’re standing near a clutch of people, none of whom seem to notice that Daphne doesn’t want to be touched.